Perhaps
by Stasya
Summary: Hermione Granger and Draco Malfoy may definitely perhaps be falling in love.


Hey all. Umm… This is my second attempt at a DMHG, since I'm not very satisfied with my first DMHG one-shot, Ineloquent Romance. I hope Draco isn't too OOC – I planned to give the impression that he's changed for the better, but underneath being still the cynical, sarcastic prick. Feedback would be much appreciated. If I still have the appetite for fanfictions after finishing my Lily/James novel length fic, maybe I'll expand this one-shot. ;)

Stace

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Hermione's cheek hurt. The last time she had been slapped was ten years ago, her last year at Hogwarts, by an unusually irate Harry. She had been trying to convince him that yes, his Ginny was dead, and he had lost his temper and apologized afterwards. Now was an entirely different matter. She stared into Narcissa Malfoy's cold blue eyes, and the narrowing of her own eyes was but a mere ploy to keep any stray tears from slipping out.

The older woman made a poorly concealed struggle to remain composed. "Get up, girl." Her voice was firm, yet had a vague quality of a tremor, enough to convince Hermione that Narcissa Malfoy was as terrified as she was.

She obeyed, calmly placing her cocktail on the bar, rising smoothly; no one noticed her slightly shaking legs, hidden by the width of her skirt. Self-consciousness settled over her like a wave of nausea – everyone was staring at the accomplished twenty-seven year old Auror.

If Mad Eye Moody, Remus Lupin or any other person she knew were there at the moment, she could have counted on them to rush to her defence even before Narcissa had even laid a finger on her, but everyone at the renowned Roses and Wine, the famous Aurors' haunt, were to her utter strangers.

"I didn't realize they let wives of deatheaters in," she murmured scathingly, deliberately paying back the stinging slap.

"_I _myself am appalled at the mere presence of a mudblood in this honorable place," Narcissa spat at her.

Her eyes refilled at the old taunt – she never could shake off its effect on her, to her frustration. Something stirred mockingly in her. _Mudblood, mudblood, mudblood_. Hermione swallowed as inconspicuously as she could, wanting to lash out, "Can't be too honorable if they let people like _you _in."

But she didn't want to seem any more of a petty, spiteful spitfire, instead faking a chuckle. "Glad I made your day."

Years in the Auror business had sharpened not only her senses, but also her tongue.

She had a rather clear idea of what this was all about. Lucius Malfoy had cleverly woven his way back into the favor of the main powers of the Ministry ten years ago, claiming brutal torture at the hands of You-Know-Who if he refused to participate in Deatheater activities. All went smooth and steady till recently, when Hermione and her group of Aurors discovered sufficient evidence to accuse him of still being in league with You-Know-Who.

On the other hand, Deatheaters had been illegally cross-breeding Manticores and rabid Hippogriffs to release a herd of "Mantigriffs" dangerous enough to wipe out an entire state. Lucius Malfoy had been the one blatantly ordering – under the name of the Ministry – Hippogriffs, claiming researchers had found them to have traits able to breed an entirely new fatal disease.

Hermione had been the mastermind of the whole capture.

The news had been splashed all over the headlines in the familiar loopy bold script of The Daily Prophet. Lucius Malfoy was sent to Azkaban once more, and it was unlikely that he would return this time.

Narcissa Malfoy took a deep, shaky breath. "You defamed my husband, ruined the Malfoy reputation-"

"_Mother!_"

Hermione let her mouth form a small 'o' of surprise, startled at the sudden interruption. Draco Malfoy strode up to Narcissa, looking only slightly worried, indifferent for the most part. "I thought you were here to get a drink." He eyed Hermione disdainfully.

But she knew it was all an act. Draco Malfoy had been part of the group of Aurors led by her. He had a hand in defaming his own father.

"Draco," Narcissa swallowed, still slicing the other woman with her sharp gaze, "Have her-this mudblood, scum, _wench_… Have her thrown out immediately!"

Mudblood, scum, wench. Hermione had a sudden desire to slap the arrogant socialite. For the third time, tears formed, unasked. _Ignore her. Ignore her. Ignore her_. If only it were that easy. She glanced at Malfoy – found him indecisive. She could tell, even though he did not seem so, the way he kept glancing alternatively at them with the usual coolness.

"That will be unnecessary," Hermione gritted her teeth, whirling around with a sharp click of her heels, striding towards the door, aware of every pair of eyes upon her.

"Miss Granger - miss! You didn't… pay."

She slammed the door to the voice of the bartender. Hermione stood immobile there, watching the wind rake the fall leaves, the crisp scent of soon-to-be winter frosty and distinct in the cool air, realizing that she'd left her red cardigan in the bar. She didn't care. Let Narcissa Malfoy voodoo it for all she wanted.

"You should know better than to enrage my mother."

The tinkling of a bell, rush of wind, sound of voice. Draco Malfoy stepped beside her, handing her the red cardigan. She accepted it wordlessly. He continued.

"Yeah, she's a bitch at times, but you know better than to let a snot brain like her get to you."

"Why don't you tell her?" Hermione demanded instead, whirling around so that she faced him soundly. "Tell her you sent your own father to prison. Tell her that you sent the person you've hated since you were seventeen to prison."

His face contorted, twisted into irritation. "We've had this conversation many times. I'm not going to repeat myself." He stepped past her, pushing open the tinted glass door. She pulled him back forcefully. He jerked his arm away but stopped. The door clanged shut, putting away the smell of alcohol from the bar.

"You make it seem as though it's a fairy tale you want me to recite to you at every chance you get, huh?" He rolled his eyes slightly, irritated, shoving hands into pockets. "I told you - she's better off not knowing. She's lost her husband, her friends, her status – if she discovers that I, the only person she thinks she hasn't lost, has betrayed her cruelly, she could well _kill herself_!"

He was agitated now; his usually pale countenance an unhealthily darker shade, his fists balled and tense. Hermione swallowed nervously; unknowingly, she'd hit a raw spot. He turned to her again, gray eyes frighteningly scared, so unlike the calm, sarcastic Malfoy she was accustomed to. "I know what it means to lose someone you love and its impact might be too great for my mother."

Hermione remembered – a steady stream of memories flooding her mind. Diana Antoinette, a Slytherin a year below them, red headed, accidentally mistaken for a mudblood in one of You-Know-Who's random attacks – and killed in a matter of seconds.

At that time, Malfoy was still a cowering pawn of You-Know-Who, but in public seen only –_innocently_- as the son of the ex-Deatheater. Hermione suspected that You-Know-Who kept Malfoy in his 'care' so as to intimidate Lucius Malfoy into continuing his allegiance to him; otherwise Lucius might, possibly, have turned his back entirely on the manic killer.

"I'm sorry," she muttered, a little reluctantly. Draco Malfoy remained still, unmoving, silent. A leaf swirled, entwined with, coloured her bushy hair. She jerked it out, letting it flutter pathetically and then be swept away by the wind that was rushing down the street. For a while they stood there while people passed by indifferently, donning sweaters, jackets, cardigans.

"Malfoy?" she attempted, knowing the short space of rest had calmed him down.

He tilted his head a little, an indication that she had his attention. At least, for a while.

"I said I was sorry."

He raised his head such that he was looking her in the eye. "I heard you."

She shrugged, embarrassed at her overly concerned self, and at his intent gaze. Then he tilted her chin upwards and kissed her. Shock and panic melted away in seconds. Something told her she should have seen that coming.

He stepped away, still holding her, neutral gaze unfaltering. "Thanks, Granger. For everything."

"I-I…" She stumbled over words; quickly regained her composure, "You're welcome."

Was that a ghost of a smile –or a smirk- she saw flit across his lips as he stepped back inside the noisy bar? Hermione couldn't tell. She only saw promise in him… maybe them. All enmity gone, enter friendship, no progressing any further – that kiss was platonic attraction. Teasing the boundaries of friendship, maybe one day they would cross the line to something more…

Another gust of wind whispered at her, followed by a stronger gust. She wrapped her cardigan around her tighter. Then, ironically, the front page of last week's Daily Prophet flapped and twisted in the wind like a writhing creature, settling momentarily at her feet. Lucius Malfoy's face stared up at hers despondently, long strands of blond hair haphazardly blown about. Hermione smiled, stepping onto the sheet of paper before making her way down the street.


End file.
